Suspicion of Betrayal (6 page)

The Old Island Club faced the water, and they followed the landscaped path around the side. There was an indoor area with big windows, but most of the tables were outdoors. A new wood deck still smelled of pine resin, and two dozen striped umbrellas fluttered in the late afternoon breeze. Karen dropped her racquet and backpack on one of them and ran through a double set of screen doors. The kitchen was beyond, and Gail heard the clatter of dishes. She found a stool at the outdoor bar, which looked like a Disney version of a bar from the islands. The colors were hot pastel, ceiling fans spun overhead, and reggae played on speakers disguised as coconuts.

A waitress in a brightly flowered shirt came to ask what she would like.

"Thanks, but I won't be here long. Is Mr. Metzger around?"

"Yes, I saw him a few minutes ago." She leaned into a cooler to fill a glass with ice. Her eyes were on Gail. "You're Karen's mother, right?"

Gail said that she was, and made a polite smile in return. The woman was in her early twenties, athletic build, short brown hair without much style to it. Not Dave's type, Gail thought. Then she wondered what Dave had told people about his ex-wife. What a cold fish
she
is.

Gail scanned the menu, which listed conch fritters, pigeon peas, and rice. Jerk chicken and pork. Captain Dave's soup of the day, $3.95. The clock over the bar was set into the mouth of a leaping swordfish: 6:10. Gail tapped her nails on the counter, which was plastic resin poured over shells and sand and fake gold treasure coins. Cute, she decided.

Her companions were a mixed bag—a leathery old man in a yachting cap, reading the sports section. A group of office workers squeezing lime wedges into their Coronas. The table nearest the water was occupied by three darkly tanned men in shorts and T-shirts, wearing enough gold jewelry to make a thief or a DEA agent pay close attention. Gail guessed that they owned the monster speedboat tied to the dock.

Karen ran along the seawall, dropping crackers to whatever darted just under the surface. Farther along, a dog lay asleep in the grass under a newly planted coconut palm still propped up on stakes. A row of banana trees had been added for ambiance, and there was a turquoise picket fence draped with bougainvillea. Across the inlet, and behind city hall, the marina was slowing down for the evening. The sailboat rigging clanged softly against the masts.

When Gail looked back at Karen, she saw that Dave was there too. Karen said something, then Dave turned toward the bar. Even at this distance she could see the color of his eyes. He stood still for a moment, then wove his way through the umbrella tables, the light flickering on his Island Club shirt. The sun had browned his skin and turned the hair on his arms and legs golden. He had put on some weight, but his shorts still fit.

"Captain Dave."

"Hi," he said warily. "What's up? Karen said you had to talk to me."

"I have a phone number for you. Dr. Evan Fischman. The judge's choice." She reached into her purse and brought out a folded piece of paper.

"My lawyer told me," Dave said.

"Oh. Well, I thought it would be a good idea to coordinate Karen's appointment."

"Joe Erwin said to go through him on everything."

"Naturally. If you go through him, he can put it on his time sheet and bill you. That's how it works."

"You should know."

Gail dropped the paper back into her purse. "Dave, this is not an issue, it's a question. Who takes Karen to see Dr. Fischman? Do you want to take her? Should I? Should we go together?"

He let a few seconds pass. "I guess I could take her. Or you could. I'll think about it and let you know. All right?"

"Sure. Call me."

Dave looked her over. "You're dressed up. Got a big night planned?"

"Just a family dinner at Anthony's grandparents' house." Gail wore a slim black dress and gold earrings and necklace.

He put one canvas boat shoe on the foot rail and an elbow on the bar. "I was going to call you anyway. There's a tennis tournament next weekend on Key Biscayne. I'd like to take Karen."

"You mean keep her next weekend too?"

"Just one day. Saturday or Sunday, whichever. Unless you have plans."

"Nothing in particular. I'll leave it up to Karen."

"She should see the pros play," Dave said. "She has talent, and I'm not saying that because I'm her father. She's a natural athlete. But I'm not one of those parents who push a kid into doing nothing but tennis, day and night. I've seen too much of that. I'm trying to do what's right for her."

"So am I." Making some time to find her way into a conversation, Gail pretended just now to notice the bar. "My, this is interesting. You've done so much here. How's business?"

"Business is great."

"I hope so."

"You never had much faith in me, did you?"

"Oh, Dave. Come on. I didn't mean it like that. I want you to succeed."

He tapped a rhythm on the bar, making a final flourish by pointing at her. "This place is going to be a gold mine. On weekends, with the steel band, you can't find a parking place. I even had Jimmy Buffett drop in here last weekend."

"Fantastic." With a little jolt of surprise, Gail realized she was smiling. She looked away from him and picked up the menu again. "Old Island Club. Catchy."

Dave nodded toward the map of the Caribbean in a rope-trimmed frame on the back wall. "See that? The original Old Island Club is at Sapphire Beach on St. Thomas. It's got white sand beaches and a good harbor—the yachties love it. They've got a big-screen TV for sports, and they take coconuts right off the trees and make a rum drink called the Green Flash. People party all night. If you sail in that area, you've been there."

"How can you get away with using their name?" Gail asked.

Dave grinned. "I bought the name. I traded the
Princess
for it."

"That was a hundred-thousand-dollar boat!"

"It was a bargain, believe me."

The waitress reappeared. "Dave? Excuse me. Can I get you anything?" Her wing-shaped brows lifted in expectation.

"Gail, you still like Red Stripe? On the house, old times' sake."

"No, I really can't stay." She reached for the small black purse on the counter.

He laid his hand on her arm. "Five minutes. I can't stay either, I've got to take Karen for her tennis lesson. Vicki, one Red Stripe and two mugs from the freezer."

"Sure." The woman made a smile, standard waitress-friendly. She went away to find the mugs, but she glanced back at Dave before the screen door to the kitchen banged shut. She was not unattractive.

Gail reconsidered. "Is there something going on between you two?"

"Me and Vicki? Naah. Not really."

"Sort of?"

"Not anymore. We went out a few times, but I've got Karen to think of. It has to be the right person."

There might have been an accusation there, but Gail let it slide. "Dave ..."

He had blue eyes with pale lashes. The sun had sketched lines at the corners.

"Can I ask you something? Why ... do you think I'm such a terrible mother? Is that what you really think?"

He turned around and leaned against the bar. "I never said that." For a while he watched a little ketch with furled sails coming into the inlet, bumping gently against the dock. "Where is it written that the mother always gets the child? I've read books that say a girl can do just as well with her father. Look, you work fifty, sixty hours a week. You've got Karen at summer camp till late in the afternoon. I can pick her up at four—"

"And you're running a restaurant, Dave. This place closes at one a.m. on weekends."

"I have a manager. I live three blocks from here, and I know what my priorities are, okay? My daughter." He faced her. "I spent a lot of nights alone out there at sea, looking up at that empty sky. There was plenty of time to contemplate what's really important in life."

"Really. I thought you and your girlfriend were staying at the Caribe Hilton in San Juan in exchange for your services as a tennis pro."

The waitress—Vicki—arrived with the beer. No one spoke while she poured it into two frosted glass mugs. "Enjoy," she said, smiling again. She went to tend to a customer.

Gail dropped her forehead onto her palm. "I apologize. This is driving me crazy."

Dave pushed a mug toward her. "You're not the only one. I wish we
could
work it out." He laughed. "Goddamn lawyer's eating up all my profits. Cheers." He clinked his mug to hers.

They sat for a minute in silence. He said, "You really do look good, though. Money agrees with you."

"I'm not sure I should consider that a compliment," she said, "since you place so little value on it."

He smiled. "Relatively speaking, Gail."

"Of course."

Dave set down his mug and turned it on its coaster. "Money. Everybody's after the long green." "But you're doing all right."

"Great." His smile deepened the lines around his eyes. "And better to come. In fact"—he leaned so close she could feel the warmth of his shoulder on her bare upper arm—"there's a company—very big— interested in a franchise. We're still working out the details, so I don't want to jinx it by saying too much."

"Be careful," she said. "Make sure they show you the money before you sign anything."

"Don't worry about that. This deal is golden." His forearms lay on the counter. His hands were blunt with muscular palms. The right was callused from holding a racquet. A dive watch was strapped to his left wrist. He wore no jewelry.

Gail hesitated, then said, "Dave, are you angry at me because we split up? Do you blame me?"

His smile faded. "You think I want Karen for revenge? That I'd put myself through this pain to even the score? No." Once again they were on opposite sides. "No, Gail. I love my daughter. Period. I want a way of life for her that she's not going to get living with you and"—it was as though Dave couldn't bring himself to say the name—"and that joker you're engaged to."

"Way of life? What—"

His forefinger hit the counter, accenting his words, which came out in a heated whisper. "A basic, simple, decent American lifestyle. Hard to find these days. It's getting damn near impossible in Miami. But that's what I want for Karen, and I will do my best to make sure she has it. You want to marry Quintana, go ahead. But you're not taking Karen with you. No. He is too slick and too damned shady. Any guy who would make his living defending dope dealers and cold-blooded killers—"

"Oh, for God's sake."

"Ask yourself: Who's his family? Did you read that article in the
Herald
last month? They investigated city contracts and found Pedrosa Construction Company in bed with the head of building and zoning. The reporter nearly got shot!"

"That has nothing to do with Anthony!"

Dave looked at her, then shook his head. "You just don't see it, do you, Gail? You, Ms. Independent, marrying a Cuban? It won't last."

"You are so wrong," Gail said.

He glanced around. The quick thump of sneakers was approaching from behind them. He said to Gail, "Yeah, I wish I were, for
her
sake." Dave pivoted on the stool. "Hey, princess. What've you got there?"

"A shell. Vicki gave it to me. What kind is it?"

"Well, let's see." Dave drew Karen closer. The cone-shaped, brown-spotted shell had spines radiating out from the opening, which was tinted with delicate pink.

"Oh, these are all over the Caymans. The water is clear as glass. I'll take you some day, princess."

Gail glanced at her watch. "I have to go." She said to Karen, "Be good. See you Sunday. Give me a kiss."

"Bye, Mom." Karen tilted her face sideways to be kissed, then turned the shell over and wondered aloud what the spines were for.

Dave said, "I'll call you about the appointment." For a long moment their eyes were locked over Karen's head.

Gail nodded, then turned and walked out.

FOUR

Shadows were lengthening by the time Gail arrived at the Pedrosa house, and the row of lamps along the wall had been lit. She drove through the open iron gates and spotted Anthony's Eldorado among the cars parked in the circular driveway. She pulled in behind it, then grabbed her purse and hurried toward the entrance, set back under a portico draped with bougain-villea. Water splashed in a fountain.

A few moments after she pressed the bell, the housekeeper swung back the heavy door.
"Buenas noches, señora."

"Gracias."
Gail gave the woman a smile as she came inside. There was a wide opening to her left, and the living room was beyond. She heard conversation and laughter.

Anthony stepped into the hall, saw who was there, and held out a hand to pull her close. His expression was a mix of relief and annoyance. "Why didn't you call? I was worried."

"Is everyone starving? I'm so sorry. My phone was in my other purse. I had to talk to Dave, and the traffic—"

He kissed her cheek. "It's all right. We're having appetizers. Relax."

Inside the living room there were more kisses and greetings for everyone, as if she had not seen most of them just last weekend for the christening of the newest great-grandson. Family dinners were frequent, usually based on a special occasion. Tonight was somebody's birthday. A great-aunt, Gail thought. She had a moment of panic before remembering that Anthony had said he would take care of the gift.

The matriarch of the family, Digna Maria Betan-court de Pedrosa, in a chic silk dress and pearl earrings, reached up from the sofa when Gail bent to kiss her. From behind his thick glasses Anthony's grandfather gave her a wink. "Anthony,
y a ella está hecha una cubana."
She's Cuban already—a reference to her tardiness. Gail winked back. This man was fluent in English, but spoke it less and less. In the 1940s he had ridden for the Cuban equestrian team. Now he sat in a wheelchair. He had fought against this indignity— being pushed through his own house like an invalid— but after one too many falls Digna had insisted.

When Señora Pedrosa grasped the handles of her husband's chair, everyone moved toward the dining room. Gail walked with the youngest granddaughter, Betty, who carried her new baby on her shoulder. Anthony escorted Aunt Graciela, his late mother's sister.